Getting Closer to Always
by bingblot
Summary: A post-ep to "Undead Again" bridging the gap between what happened between Castle and Beckett in that ep and the beginning of "Always." Because I always felt that the post-"47 Seconds" story arc got resolved too quickly in "Undead Again."
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Nope, "Castle" still doesn't belong to me.

Author's Note: In rewatching the arc from "47 Seconds" on through the angsty awesomeness that was "Always," it occurred to me (again) that everything between Castle and Beckett, about her lying about what she remembered, got resolved too quickly in "Undead Again"—as happy as I was to see it, since more episodes like "The Limey" and "Headhunters" might have killed me. So I decided to write my own take on how Castle and Beckett went from Castle deciding that the zombie case would be his last one to the beginning of "Always," where he's comfortable with inviting her over for a movie night (after he's made it obvious that they'll be alone!) and she's comfortable with accepting so easily.

**Getting Closer to Always**

"Richard, where are you off to this morning?"

His mother's question stopped him cold in his putting away of breakfast. Damn, he should have known his mother would ask. And he didn't want to talk about this, not when he was still so uncertain of what he was doing. Maybe he should have snuck out of the loft at dawn or something this morning and just killed time somewhere until then, he thought ridiculously. And for half a second, he momentarily considered lying to his mother but no, he couldn't lie to his mother and damn it, he was a grown man. He shouldn't need to be sneaking out of his own house to avoid answering questions from his mother. Even if he wasn't sure what he was doing and was afraid he was being a colossal idiot.

"To the precinct," Castle answered carefully.

"To say goodbye to everyone?"

He sighed. "No, Mother. Just to take Beckett her coffee and see if there's anything going on, like I always do."

"Oh, Richard, I thought you said this zombie case would be your last."

He sat down at the island facing his mother. "I know, Mother, and at the time, I meant it but then… Beckett and I talked, a little…"

"She explained why she lied about not remembering?"

"Yes. Well, sort of," he corrected himself. "She said she couldn't deal with it, with everything that happened to her at the time, that she needed to work through it on her own first."

"And is that explanation enough?"

He hesitated for a long moment. Was it enough? At the time, at that moment, it had seemed like it; it had been more than she'd been willing to admit to before, certainly, about being in therapy. And the admission that she'd been in therapy had hit him in the chest and left him breathless because how could he not have known this, how could he not have noticed? Because he knew Beckett; he knew how hard it was for her to admit she needed help from anyone. So for her to have voluntarily gone back to therapy—how much she must have been going through to get her to go back to therapy. (And he knew enough of NYPD regs to know that she would have needed to go back voluntarily; she would have needed to pass a psych eval before she could return to work but once she had passed it, he had expected that would be it. But no, she had gone back, had admitted she still needed professional help.) The thought of it had made him ache for her and abruptly put from his mind any thought of his own hurt.

_It's going to take everything that he's got to just put one foot in front of the other and get through the day. _

"I think so," he finally said. "At least, I'm not angry at her anymore." Well, that wasn't completely true, part of him was still angry, but his anger was muted now. She had taken all the wind out of its sails with her admission that she was in therapy.

"But since she does know how you feel, how does she feel, Richard? Did she say anything about that?"

"Yes. Well, no. I don't really know. She said she thinks she's getting close to accepting everything that happened and she… she wants me to be around when she gets there."

"So she wants you to wait. Still."

He grimaced. Put like that…

His mother sighed. "I'm sure Beckett cares about you as her friend and her partner but I worry that she'll hurt you. Again. Are you sure you know what you're doing, Richard?"

"No, I'm not," he admitted frankly.

God knew he'd spent the better part of last night wondering this very thing. A part of him, the part of him that was still hurt, was raging at him that he was being a fool, that he was playing right into Beckett's hands by giving in so easily. That this was exactly what she'd done to string him along for the last 8 months, giving him just enough hope through subtext to keep him coming back but never committing, never saying anything outright.

Another part of him, the stronger part of him at the moment, insisted that he had to give Beckett a chance, that she couldn't, wouldn't, just lead him on like this for nothing, that all her words, cautious and somewhat vague as they were, had to mean something. That all her looks, her soft smiles, had to mean something. And she'd been in therapy; surely he could understand her needing to take time after all that she'd been through.

He wished he could decide if he was still angry at her for lying or not. And how crazy was it, how confused and tied up in knots was he over Beckett, if he wasn't sure if he was angry? He was a writer; he was in touch with his emotions, always knew what he was feeling.

He understood, now that he thought about it with a little more objectivity, that it would have taken her some time to accept and come to terms with everything that happened in the cemetery, her shooting happening right on the heels of her devastating discovery of Captain Montgomery's involvement with her mother's case and then his murder on top of that. She hadn't had time to process any of it, let alone his own declaration of love. It had quite possibly been the worst-timed declaration of love in the history of the world, although he didn't—couldn't—regret it. He'd thought she was dying—he still shuddered at the memory—and he couldn't let her go without telling her he loved her. But it didn't mean he didn't understand it might have been too much for her. Physically, she'd been in no condition to deal with it and mentally, emotionally… well, he could understand. Now.

He could understand—but with understanding came the end of anger, even the beginning of forgiveness. And without anger to hold on to, he was left with hurt. And it did hurt. He still wished desperately she could have let him in, could have let him help her the way he wanted to, the way he ached to. But he knew her, knew how self-reliant she was. And he could accept—or wanted to be able to accept— that she would have needed to recover, become stronger, on her own; acknowledging or accepting his feelings wouldn't have solved any of her problems. He wanted to think it would have but this was no fairy tale; this wasn't something where all would be fixed with "true love's kiss" or something like that. And Beckett was no damsel in distress to let someone just ride up and slay all her dragons for her, even if he could have.

So he could understand. Mostly. He thought he could understand. And if she hadn't even been able to come to terms with her shooting, let alone his declaration of love, then he couldn't read anything about her actual feelings for him in her months of silence. Could he? He didn't think he could—and with the memory of her looks, her smiles, her tone, from the last day running through his mind, he was even less sure of what her feelings might be. But there it was, he had hope again. A pale, invalid cousin of the hope he'd been living on for something like the past year but it was still hope. Hope that he hadn't been played for a fool these past months, hope that he hadn't been deluding himself—or been deluded by her these past months. Hope that she did want to be with him, after all.

He wasn't sure, was still afraid that he was being influenced by his own wishful thinking more than actual facts. But, well, this was who he was. He was an optimist. He believed in things like fate and the supernatural and magic and, yes, he still believed in her, in _them_. Still believed that he and Beckett could be—would be—amazing together.

No, he wasn't sure about this. All he really had was a tentative, cautious hope based on what might turn out to be wishful thinking. "But, Mother, I—I'm not sure I have any choice. You were right when you said love's not a switch I can turn on and off. I can't turn it off and I can't stop and, as long as there's any hope, I can't just give up on her." He sighed. "I won't wait forever, not now, not this time. I can't. But I'll wait a little longer."

"Oh, darling," his mother sighed, lifting her hand to touch his cheek in one of her rare caressing gestures, before patting his arm. "I just don't want to see you get hurt."

"I know, Mother, but I'm a big boy. I can handle it." A lie, he thought with a fleeting stab of pain and dread—if Kate ever told him outright that she didn't want to be with him, that she didn't love him, he knew it would decimate him for a good long while, possibly forever—but what was he supposed to say?

"All right. I hope you know what you're doing, kiddo."

"Yeah, me too." He managed a smile for his mother and then, standing up, moved around the island to give her a fleeting kiss on the cheek. Another rare gesture between them but right then, it felt appropriate. Now, when he was so uncertain, all his emotions wrung out and turned inside out over Kate, he was grateful for his mother, for the very simplicity of the love and trust between them that didn't need to be thought about. "I'll see you later, Mother."

"Until tonight, Richard."

He gave his mother a wave as he left the loft, heading to the usual coffee shop down the street from the precinct to pick up his and Beckett's usual order. And so armed, he made his way to the precinct.

She looked up when he arrived, her face lighting up with one of her beautiful, soft smiles, as she accepted her coffee. "Thanks, Castle."

He managed a small grin, trying to act normally. "I may not help you with paperwork but I figure I can at least keep you caffeinated while you work."

"A useful public service," she smiled.

And damn, if his stupid, hopeful heart didn't flip at the sight of her smile. Still. Again. He suppressed a sigh. He was so doomed. And he couldn't give her up. Not yet. Not now. He knew that, felt it in his very bones. He wasn't going to be able to get over her. There was no getting over Kate Beckett.

He'd been honest when he said he wouldn't—couldn't—wait forever for Beckett. He would give her a little more time for the wall to come down but at some point, he knew he would have to stop. For his own sanity's sake. Going on like this, in this limbo, for much longer would shred his heart entirely. So he couldn't wait forever. For his own sake. For his mother's sake, for Alexis's sake.

But he knew that if the day came that he needed to just give up on her, on his dream of them, entirely, he would need to give up everything, completely sever even the smallest connection to her, cut off ties completely to everyone at the 12th, possibly the entire NYPD, to Lanie and everyone at the ME's office. He would probably need to give up on writing Nikki Heat, no matter what his current contract said.

It would hurt damnably—he suspected, without hyperbole, it might half kill him—but he knew it was the only way he could do it. She was… an addiction and he could no more keep some little corner of her and not have it consume him than an alcoholic could have just one drink.

"Oh, Castle, I wanted to mention the DA's office called and they've officially dropped all charges against Kyle Jennings. He's home free. And they've filed the charges against Tom Williams."

"That's good to hear."

"It was a clever plan," she said somberly. "Williams was such a cool customer, he might have gotten away with it. If it hadn't been for you and your plan to scare a confession out of him."

He shrugged but allowed himself a little smug grin. "Ah, well, I figured it might be our best shot after taking a run at Greta didn't work. He was a coward, not wanting to do any of his own dirty work, so I thought he might break if it looked like he might have to pay for what he did to Kyle."

"You were right." She paused and then added, "Thank you, Castle."

He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "For what?"

"For coming up with that plan. I—I'm not sure it would have occurred to me to use Kyle against him like that." She laughed softly. "I certainly don't think it would have occurred to me to dress up in Kyle's zombie costume."

"I guess that's what you need me for, Beckett." He said it lightly but as happened sometimes between them, the careless words seemed to fall into a sudden charged silence.

Their eyes met and held and he suddenly found it hard to breathe.

_That's what you need me for… _

Stupid, he scolded himself. What was he thinking saying something like that, even in jest, now?

"I mean, to come up with crazy plans involving zombie costumes," he added quickly.

She blinked, her lashes lowering to hide her eyes, before she met his eyes again. "Right, of course."

And he wondered if he was imagining the slight breathlessness in her voice, the tinge of… uncertainty… in her tone as she agreed with him.

Damn it, he was doing it again, he thought in annoyance. Hoping, imagining, building up on subtext and silences and imagined looks. He could be imagining it. God knew he had a vivid imagination and where Beckett was concerned, it seemed like his imagination tended to work overtime.

She wasn't ready yet, the wall hadn't come down. She'd said so. And she still hadn't said, directly, that the wall coming down would be for him, for them.

After all, it hadn't been all that long ago that she'd seemed all too willing to be charmed by the admittedly-charming—drat the man!—Inspector Colin Hunt.

He was her friend and her partner and maybe that was all she meant, that she wanted him to be around, as her friend, to see the wall come down.

He _hoped_—but he still didn't _know_. And he needed to know. Hoping wasn't enough—not anymore. Not when he knew she'd known how he felt for months and hadn't said anything. And that was really what it came down to. Metaphorical walls were all well and good but surely, if she just weren't ready but she wanted to be with him, she would have said something? Would have told him, asked him to wait—_something_? He would have waited, would happily wait for years, if she only asked him to—but instead, she'd said nothing. Said nothing for _months_.

He suppressed another sigh. He was going to drive himself crazy thinking about this, wondering about this. "Well, if you're only going to be doing paperwork today, I guess there's not much need for me to stick around. I might just head home, try to get some writing done since I'm behind on the latest chapter I owe Gina. Call me if a body drops?"

She looked up at him. "Of course, Castle."

He headed towards the elevators when she stopped him. "Castle?"

He turned. "Yeah, Beckett?"

She gave him a rather tentative smile. "If no body drops by the end of the day, want to meet at the Old Haunt? I'll buy you a drink."

"Sure. Count me in," he agreed automatically and then wanted to kick himself. Spending more time with her outside of work wasn't what he needed right now. He was trying to be cautious, to be careful, trying to protect himself even as he waited. Because, damn it, it _hurt_ to be around her now, not quite as much as it had after he'd first found out she'd lied—that had just about ripped him apart—but it still hurt, even now, even if she'd said she thought the walls were close to coming down. It hurt to be so uncertain around her, to doubt everything she said. "Have the boys and Lanie come too. We haven't had a night out at the Old Haunt in a little while," he added hurriedly.

"Sounds good. I'll tell them."

"Until later, then."

"See you tonight, Castle."

He went home but if he'd thought he might actually get some writing done, he was sadly mistaken. As it was, he spent the day alternately playing computer games or staring—brooding, really—at her picture on his electronic story board of her sniper case while memories, images, from the last year played through his mind as he tried to determine for the thousandth—no, millionth—time since he'd found out she remembered her shooting, if he'd really been so wrong about how she felt, what she wanted. And tried to decide how much he should read into her saying that she thought she was getting closer to being able to accept everything that had happened that day at the cemetery. Accept—what? That he loved her? But did that just mean admitting she heard him, that she knew how he felt, or did it mean she loved him too? He didn't know, he couldn't decide. He knew what he wanted to believe—but that was the crux of the problem. He _wanted_ to believe it too much. He _wanted_ to believe she loved him—had always wanted to believe it—so how could he know he hadn't talked himself into believing it?

She thought the wall was coming down. _I know I won't be able to have the kind of relationship that I want until the wall comes down. _But had she really meant that she wanted to have that kind of relationship _with him_? Or just a real relationship with anyone, another Dr. Motorcycle Boy or another Inspector Hunt?

He didn't manage to reach any conclusions. He wasn't sure it was possible to reach any conclusions. All he managed to conclude was that he was developing a healthy dislike of subtext. So much for being a writer, he thought rather bitterly, where the trick was always to leave _just enough_ up to the reader, hide just enough of the ball from the reader to keep them interested, give the reader—like the heroes—just enough clues.

And maybe that was the problem. He kept thinking of his relationship with Beckett as being a story, as if there were some prearranged happy ending for them set in stone—but that wasn't the case, was it? This was real life and there were no real, clean-cut endings in life and life didn't play out the way stories did. There was no guaranteed happily ever after. There might just be this—four years of shadowing her, of falling in love with her, of waiting for her—until she finally told him that she didn't feel the same way, that he was her friend and her partner but she didn't want him as a lover. He flinched at the thought but forced himself to acknowledge the truth of it. It was possible. It was just as possible—maybe even more so—than the dream he had of the two of them, together, of Kate in his bed, in his life, as his partner in every sense of the word.

He walked into the Old Haunt to see that she and the boys were already there. She looked up and smiled at him—and his heart reacted. No, he really could not give up on her now. He was in this too deep, loved her too much. He would wait a little longer until the wall came down. And then—well, and then he would ask, directly. No more subtext; no more dancing around the subject. Because he needed to know, for sure, how she felt before he could give up on her, on them.

He sent a general grin around the table as he slid into the booth beside Beckett. "Hey, guys. Getting started without me?"

"It's not our fault if you're late, Castle," Esposito shot back.

Beckett grinned and shook her head a little, pushing a glass over to him. "I already got you your drink, Castle, so stop pouting."

He lifted the glass in a half-salute before taking a drink. She had ordered him his usual scotch that he ordered when he was here—and his heart warmed, ridiculously. Of course she knew his usual drink order. They came to the Old Haunt often enough. It didn't mean anything. Really. He knew her drink order too just like he knew how she took her coffee. He could probably guess Esposito's and Ryan's orders too. Except, he thought, he really couldn't. Beer of some sort but he couldn't remember which brand either of them preferred.

"Say, Castle, explain to us again how when we have to spend a day writing up a case report about zombies, the writer somehow never sticks around to help us?" Espo interjected.

"Ah, never mind him," Ryan cut in. "He's just cranky 'cause he got a paper cut and he's a big baby."

Espo turned a mock glare on Ryan, pointing a finger at his partner. "Just for that, you are getting the next round."

Ryan grinned. "You can try but I don't take orders from you."

Espo turned to Beckett. "You tell him, Beckett! He takes orders from you."

Beckett laughed. "Oh no. I know better than to get in between partners."

Espo made a face at her. "Hey, I'm your partner too!"

She shot Esposito a teasing grin. "Wrong again. You're on my team but I already have a partner, remember? A certain writer who refuses to write when it comes to paperwork," she added, nudging Castle with her elbow.

"Okay, okay, here we go again," Castle exclaimed, pretending offense. "Why is it always pick-on-the-writer day whenever you guys get stuck inside doing paperwork? We all know Gates wouldn't accept a report I wrote."

"Yeah, Castle, your charm seems to be lacking since it clearly has no effect on Gates," Espo cracked.

"No, that's just proof that she's somewhat less than human," he quipped. "All real humans are susceptible to my charm and likability, ask anyone!"

That resulted in another round of sarcastic laughs and teasing rejoinders and he felt himself relax. This, he could do, this camaraderie with the team. Yes, he was hyper-aware of Beckett sitting next to him but that was nothing.

"So, Castle, did you manage to get much writing done?" Ryan asked.

"Not so much writing as just working out some plotting problems in my head," he answered—and told himself he wasn't lying. He had been working out plotting problems; no need to mention that the plot was his own life and his relationship with Beckett rather than anything Nikki Heat-related.

Beside him, Beckett laughed a little. "Working out plotting problems? Is that some new euphemism for playing computer games all day?"

"I was working!" he protested, even as something inside him twisted rather painfully at this evidence of how well she knew him, right down to his procrastination habits from his writing. She knew him—and he couldn't help but wonder at each instance of her knowing him if it meant anything, if her knowing him was evidence of her feelings just as how well he knew her was evidence of his.

"I should have gotten a job where playing computer games all day counted as work," Espo interjected.

"I know, right? What were we thinking, becoming cops?" Ryan quipped.

"Maybe that you don't have the talent to become a writer," Espo shot back before he finished his drink and nudged Ryan. "Come on. Time for round 2 and it's on you."

"I don't remember agreeing to that," Ryan protested but he slid out of the booth and accompanied Espo to the bar.

Leaving him and Beckett alone. Damn.

He took refuge in sipping his drink but it wasn't as if he could keep staring at his glass forever. He debated, trying to come up with a neutral topic of conversation, but before he could, she beat him to it.

"We're not taking you away from something else, are we?" she asked.

He looked up at her. "What? No, of course not," he answered.

She smiled slightly. "Oh. Good, then. I just wondered…"

"Wondered what, Beckett?"

"If you might have another date with Jacinda."

Stupidly, crazily, it took him a second to remember who Jacinda was—and he honestly could barely remember what she looked like. "Oh," he said lamely. "No, no date. She, ah, had to leave the City again for work," he lied, since he had no idea what her work schedule was like since he'd said goodbye to her a couple weeks ago. Come to think of it, he possibly owed Jacinda an apology since he'd been very abrupt in telling her he couldn't see her anymore. He might have only kissed her a couple times—almost willing himself to want to kiss her but he'd found that the only woman he _wanted_ to kiss was Kate—and he was afraid that Kate was the only woman he would _ever_ want to kiss and how pathetic was that?—but he wasn't usually so curt with women. Or he never had been before.

Beckett wasn't looking at him, was staring at the circle of moisture left by her glass on the table. "So… do you think you'll see her again when she does come back?"

Did she… care? He couldn't tell if she was only curious or if she actually felt something.

"No," he said finally, honestly. "I think that's… done. It's over."

"Oh, really? I thought… well, it seemed like you really liked her, liked that she was fun and uncomplicated."

He inwardly winced. Okay, that had been punishing Beckett. He knew it. And he was abruptly ashamed of it. Yes, he'd been angry at her but she deserved better than that sort of cheap crack; if only for the sake of their friendship, she deserved better than that. "No, well, you know, fun and uncomplicated only goes so far. It's… a distraction, but it's not… real… Uncomplicated becomes boring. It doesn't last."

"Is that what you want, then, something real, something that will last?"

_Only with you, _he wanted to blurt out and had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from saying that out loud. His heart slammed against his rib cage and he found it hard to breathe and all the noise in the Old Haunt faded away into nothing as he stared at her. She wasn't smiling but she had met his eyes and why on earth couldn't the lighting be better in bars so he could try to read the expression in her eyes?

But then he realized, this was what they always did. She would say something or he would say something and he would start analyzing every minute change of her expression, every shift in the color of her eyes, every shade of her tone, for the subtext behind her words, her reaction. This was how she'd kept him hoping, kept him following her, for all these months, knowing perfectly well how he felt.

No, no, no, he suddenly thought with a flare-up of his old anger. He was done with this, done with this subtext thing. She either loved him, wanted to be with him, or she didn't. And he wasn't going to respond to her subtext anymore. Really.

"Did I mention that Alexis made her decision about what college she's going to?" he asked instead, not even caring that his change of subject would be pitifully blatant.

"No, you didn't mention it. Which did she decide on? I'm assuming it wasn't Oxford," Beckett added with a small smile, "Or you would be in here drowning your sorrows in multiple whiskeys."

He managed a real smile at the thought of Alexis. "She decided on Columbia so she'll be staying close to home."

"Wow, you must be happy about that."

"I am. Believe me, I am."

"She wasn't worried that it would be too close for her?"

"She made me promise that I would try to give her space, not drop in on her every day or insist she come home every weekend."

"Good for her," Beckett nodded approval. "It's a great school. I hope she likes it."

"Yeah, me too." He finished off his drink with a last couple gulps. "I just can't believe she's decided what college to go to. I swear it seems like only yesterday she was running to me for help in tying her shoe-laces."

She laughed. "Alexis hasn't been that little for about 15 years now, Castle. Get used to it. We all grow up eventually."

"I didn't," he protested automatically.

She grinned at him. "Yeah, well, you're the exception that proves the rule."

He pretended to make a face at her but then the boys returned with their drinks and Lanie arrived at the Old Haunt to join them and the rest of the evening passed without any more opportunity for him and Beckett to talk alone—and he couldn't decide if he was relieved about that or not.

She gave him one of her soft smiles as they were breaking up for the evening. "Thanks for coming, Castle. This was fun."

He shrugged, biting back the sudden urge to say that she'd asked him to come and he couldn't refuse her, could never refuse her. "Yeah, well, it is my bar. What kind of owner would I be if I didn't encourage patronage?"

"Still, thanks."

"Hey, girl, you coming?" Lanie called from the cab she was going to share with Beckett to get home.

"So, see you tomorrow, Castle?"

"Tomorrow," he echoed, trying to pretend he wasn't mesmerized by the play of the lights of the City in her eyes, the warmth in her voice and in her smile.

She gave him a last smile and then hurried to get into the cab with Lanie and he stared after the retreating taxi for a long moment.

He remembered the times when her saying "see you tomorrow" had taken on additional significance—to show him she'd forgiven him for looking into her mother's case three years ago, to tell him he'd be welcomed back as her partner after his summer away in the Hamptons. And yesterday, telling him she wanted him to be around when the wall came down.

_That wall I was telling you about? I think it's coming down. I'd like you to be there too._

_See you tomorrow._ It wasn't quite "always," and it was definitely not an "I love you," but it had to mean something, didn't it?

He was trying to analyze the hidden meanings behind a fairly conventional form of leave-taking, he suddenly realized. He, the man of big, romantic gestures, had been reduced to analyzing the subtext in synonyms for saying "goodnight."

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that he was so doomed.

Protect his heart even while hoping? Who was he kidding? His heart was a lost cause. And this tentative hope while waiting for the wall to come down might just kill him.

He remembered how his mother had asked him if he knew what he was doing. No, he really, really didn't. He had no damn clue what he was doing. He was very possibly setting himself up for a brutal heartbreak or… Or something else. All he knew was that he felt some tentative, wispy beginnings of hope—hope that somehow he'd been wrong about what her months and months of lies and silence might mean—and his hope, rather like his love, was too stubborn, too much a part of him, to die.

_Author's Note 2: Reviews would be much appreciated! I'd love to know people's thoughts on my characterizations of how Castle is feeling and what he's thinking. _


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Still not mine.

Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who's read, reviewed, and/or favorited this story so far! I hope this next part satisfies.

**Getting Closer to Always**

_Chapter 2_

Castle found himself entering the precinct, two coffees in hand, almost before he'd consciously realized he was heading there.

He got a few raised eyebrows from the uniforms he passed and then Esposito saw him as he got out onto Homicide's floor.

"Whoa, Castle, what's with the tie?" Espo called. "It's a little early for a date, isn't it?"

He forced a small laugh and waved a hand at Espo.

Beckett looked up and smiled at him before her gaze flickered down to his tie and she raised her eyebrows. "You look all dressed up today, Castle. What's the occasion?"

He handed her her coffee and sank into his seat, feeling better just from seeing her smile. (Damn. He was so easy.) "I was down at One PP," he answered briefly. "Figured I should look a little more formal."

She raised her eyebrows. "What on earth were you doing at One PP? Trying to get the Commissioner's permission to shadow more cops?" she asked rather teasingly.

"No!" he said too forcefully. He made a face. "No, absolutely not," he repeated, as he rather impatiently loosened his tie and took it off. "I was down at One PP to talk to the Review Board about Slaughter." He had dressed in a nicer, conservative suit and worn the tie to look like an influential, upstanding citizen and help him in sounding confident when he lied about Slaughter's behavior on the job—his mother had always said a performer became more confident and thereby more convincing in costume—but now that it was over, he just felt used. Why had he made such an effort as to dress up for something he was doing for Slaughter of all people?

"Oh." Her expression blanked for a moment at the mention of the other detective's name. "To speak against him?" she guessed.

He inwardly winced. "No, to speak on his behalf," he corrected quietly. He saw the look on her face and quickly added, "We made a deal—he would let me shadow him and I would defend him to the Review Board from being cited for excessive force."

No, that explanation didn't help. He was an idiot. How on earth could he possibly even hope for Kate Beckett to love him if this was the sort of thing he did, he suddenly wondered.

"So you lied to the Review Board?" she asked.

He grimaced a little and this time didn't try to hide it. Damn it. He knew she would hate that. She dealt with people who lied to the police every day and she hated it; she would hate it even more when it was to the Review Board that kept bad cops in check. "I… uh… evaded as much as I could. I didn't outright lie but I made some very vague, generic statements and… uh… let them draw their own conclusions." Or at least, he'd tried to. He hadn't been entirely successful, granted, so yeah, he'd had to outright lie a couple times but he didn't want to admit that to Beckett. The entire thing had left him leaving vaguely… unclean… and his feet had somehow directed him to the precinct—oh, who was he kidding, his feet had directed him to _her_ even without his conscious direction. Because he wanted to believe again in the NYPD, be reminded that not all cops were like Slaughter. Because her smile always brightened his day, because a day never seemed quite right unless he saw her or talked to her or otherwise heard from her in some way.

She was silent for a moment and he waited for her to say that she could have told him so, that she knew getting involved with Slaughter wouldn't do anyone any good. But she didn't.

"Did it work?" she finally asked.

"Did what work?"

"Your evasive answers. Did the Board dismiss the excessive force charges against Slaughter?"

"Uh… yeah, they did. It was a divided vote but yeah, the dismissal side got the one extra vote it needed."

"Well, I guess that's something good."

He gaped at her. That was the absolute last thing he would have expected her to say. "But it's wrong! Beckett, you and I both know that Slaughter was guilty, has probably been guilty of using excessive force a lot more times than they charged him with."

"I know. But he'll get written up for it again, he always does, and maybe next time he won't get away with it."

"But why do you think it's a good thing he got away with it now?"

She met his eyes. "Because I know Slaughter and cops like him and Castle, if the Board had found him guilty of excessive force this time, even with your testimony, Slaughter wouldn't have left you alone. He would have blamed you."

He blinked. "You think he would have attacked me?"

"No, not that directly. Slaughter—he's not a total idiot, he knows better than to try to seriously injure you himself. But Castle, you're not a cop. Slaughter knows there's only so much he can do to try to intimidate a fellow cop into lying for him when he gets pulled up on disciplinary charges but with a civilian… Let's just say that bad cops like Slaughter have ways you don't even want to think about to harass civilians, generally making their lives hell, and there'd be very little that you or I could do to really stop him if he decided you were his enemy. Slaughter has friends—"

"Hard to believe a jerk like that knows the meaning of the word," he muttered but subsided as she gave him a look.

"He has friends in the force, mostly other cops like him, and if he decided you'd sabotaged him at the Board hearing today, he wouldn't have let that go. As you might have noticed, he's not exactly the forgiving type," she added, a touch of wry humor entering her voice. "He'd have found a way to get back at you by harassing you. He'd have hassled Alexis when she was at the ME's office…"

He sat up in dismay, remembering with a flare of panic what Slaughter had said about Alexis. Oh God, he hadn't even—he didn't want Slaughter coming within 50 feet of Alexis, didn't want Slaughter so much as breathing the same air as Alexis. "Alexis!"

"I'm saying he could have, Castle, but he won't," she quickly reassured him. "Because he got off. So he'll assume it was at least in part thanks to you vouching for him. So you—and Alexis—should be fine."

He stared at her. "So you—just now, when you said it was a good thing that Slaughter got off this time, that was… for me?"

God, he loved her.

She gave him a small smile. "Of course, Castle. You're my partner, it's what we do."

Partners. Having his back in life-threatening situations, yes, but she would protect anyone if she could. It was her job, her calling, and the type of person she was. He thought of how she'd had his back in the case he'd worked with Slaughter, the way she'd looked into it on her own, before he'd even asked her. He'd been touched and amazed but even there, a part of him had told him it was part of her job; she was a homicide detective, she would never want someone's killer to go free. This—this was something more, something different. This, as she'd freely acknowledged, hadn't been about his physical safety, just his peace of mind, really. And this involved Slaughter, a bad cop who was the sort that made the entire NYPD look bad, going unpunished for behavior that he knew Beckett abhorred. He knew Beckett; he knew how much she believed in the NYPD. She might not be blind to its flaws but she believed in it still, was loyal to it with all the loyalty she was capable of. But this—she had put him, his comfort, Alexis's peace of mind, above the NYPD. She had cared more about him…

And he remembered, again, with a force that the thought hadn't had until now—that he hadn't _allowed_ the thought to have until now—that she had deliberately and knowingly broken NYPD rules about interfering with another cop's investigation—for him. She had broken the rules. And Beckett wasn't a rule-breaker. She only broke the rules for people she really, truly cared about—she'd broken the rules when Royce had been murdered, he knew she was willing to break any and all rules when it came to her mother's case—and he felt a stab of unease at this reminder that, after all, he had kept his own secrets from her, had lied to her too. And now, she had broken the rules, risked suspension from her job, for him. (He spared a minute to be thankful to whatever higher powers there might be that Slaughter had had this Review Board hearing pending; it would have kept Slaughter from reporting Beckett for her interference in his case since the last thing Slaughter would want was to get the attention of One PP at a time when he was already facing disciplinary action.)

This—this wasn't subtext, he thought rather vaguely. This was just… text… this was her telling him that he was more important to her than the NYPD—and surely she had to care for him for that to be true.

"Thank you." For having his back, for wanting to protect him from Slaughter, for caring.

She smiled, one of her real, glowing smiles that he swore illuminated her eyes, filled them with warmth. "Always."

_Always. _

Surely—surely—she couldn't smile at him like this, look at him with this warmth in her eyes, if she didn't care for him, if she didn't want more…

"And thanks for not saying I told you so," he added after a moment. "I've learned my lesson. From now on, I'm a one-detective writer."

She laughed softly. "Don't say that too loud or Espo and Ryan will hear and have their feelings hurt."

He grinned, suddenly hopeful, his heart thrilling. "Fine, I'm a one-detective-and-her-team writer," he amended.

"Doesn't have the same ring to it, though, does it?"

"No, it doesn't," he agreed. "I think I'm changing it back to just being a one-detective writer if you promise not to tell Espo and Ryan."

"Your secret's safe with me," she promised, a smile playing around her lips and putting green glints in her eyes.

He loved it when she was happy, playful, like this. She was always beautiful but in these times, she was so far beyond beautiful that he forgot how to breathe, forgot about the entire world, could only stare and think that he really could spend the rest of his life just looking at her and be happy.

He had to fight for some coherence but managed to say, "I think I've been spoiled these past few years, spending all this time with you, Esposito, Ryan, and others like Captain Montgomery, L.T., Officer Hastings and even Captain Gates."

"Spoiled—how so?"

"You're all good cops," he explained. "And I don't mean good, as in good at your jobs, although you are. I mean good, as in you've all kept your sense of honor as well as your sense of justice. You're on the side of the angels."

"Thanks."

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug by way of demurring. "It's true. It's… easier, I think, to become a cop like Slaughter, who acts like he's above the law, who acts like it doesn't matter how you go about doing your job as long as you get results."

"Yeah, well, Captain Montgomery never let us believe that," she said quietly, as she always tended to speak of Montgomery.

"I know. He was a good man," he said equally quietly. "He made mistakes, big mistakes, but he was a good cop, a good man." It occurred to him that maybe the reason Montgomery had been so effective at teaching Beckett, Esposito, and Ryan to be such good cops was because he'd learned his lesson from working with Raglan as a rookie, had seen, first-hand, the domino effect of cops acting as if they were above the law.

She let out a shaky breath and managed the ghost of a smile. "Yeah, he was."

She looked too close to tears for his liking so he quickly added, "It's what I like so much about Nikki Heat too."

That succeeded in clearing up her expression as she raised her eyebrows at him. "You mean, aside from the fact that she's a fictional character you created?"

"Touché, Detective," he shot back. "I'll have you know I've created many characters I've disliked. No, what I like about Nikki—more than I like Derrick Storm, for example—is that she's good too."

"Derrick Storm was on the side of the angels, as you put it."

"Yeah, of course, he generally was, but Storm himself—not such a good guy, when it comes down to it. He's cool, efficient, gets nice cars and big guns and all the fun stuff to play with, but he's not a really admirable character. Nikki, on the other hand, is an admirable character. She's a role model."

He wondered if she realized, if she understood, that what he meant was that _she_ was admirable. She was amazing—and so much more than Nikki was. And he realized at that moment that he really had forgiven her entirely for lying about what she remembered. He wasn't sure when it had happened but he had forgiven her and he wasn't even angry anymore. It still hurt—especially when he thought about that hellish last summer when she'd left him without a word for all the months of her recovery even while knowing that he loved her, it hurt damnably—but he had forgiven her. Because she _was_ admirable and she wasn't deliberately cruel. She wasn't vindictive. She had made a mistake but it was a mistake made when she'd hardly been in a position to think clearly. And, well, she'd been in therapy trying to deal with all the emotional repercussions from that day—when it had taken her all she had just to put one foot in front of the other and get through the day—and how could he stay angry at her when he knew she'd needed that kind of professional help? And maybe he was forgiving her too easily—part of him was insisting that he was setting himself up to be played for a fool—but what he'd said to his mother the other day had been true. When it came to her, he didn't really have a choice. He loved her, of course he forgave her.

Her expression softened but she only said, rather wryly, "Wow, Castle, if you keep on talking like that about Nikki, I'm going to start calling you Pygmalion."

"Ooh, very nice, a mythology allusion. I approve, Detective Beckett," he nodded at her.

She rolled her eyes a little. "So kind of you to bestow your approval, Mr. Writer Man."

He lifted his eyebrows as he smirked. "I like that name, keep calling me that."

She laughed. "Not a chance, Castle."

He only smiled but couldn't help but think that there was possibly something wrong with him to find her so adorable even when she was puncturing his pretensions—or especially when she was puncturing his pretensions.

"Anyway, Castle, not that it's not always a delight to see you," she said, her tone ironic, "but why'd you come in today? You know it's going to be another paperwork day; it's not even our turn to be called if a body drops."

For half a second, Castle wondered what she would do or say if he blurted out the honest truth, that he'd come in because he wanted to see her every day. He wanted to see her every day for the rest of his life—and that was the terrifying thing about his entire relationship with Beckett, that he was so sure of that. After all, he acknowledged, he couldn't really blame her for keeping their relationship going on the delicate balance of subtext and silences; he did it too. He could have asked her directly any time in these last months, could have told her how he felt again. _I love you, Kate. I'll wait for you, Kate. Just tell me if you want me to wait. _But he hadn't. Had kept his own silence just as much as she had hers. It was… easier, safer… to hide behind subtext, letting the real emotions go unspoken, because the real truth of what he felt, how much he felt, was terrifying. And it had been easier, he'd almost been happier, waiting and living on hope rather than asking directly and risking hearing her tell him, _you're my friend and my partner but I don't love you_. And that would devastate him. Because it meant too much to him. _She_ meant too much to him.

For so long, he hadn't wanted to risk losing the hope of Always, because that was what she was. Even though he'd never even kissed her for real and not just to distract a guard, never slept with her, never experienced being in an actual relationship with her, he was somehow sure that this was a rest-of-his-life thing. He'd said "always" and he meant _always_, and that terrified him when he stopped to think about it, so he had kept his silence.

And he was the one to whom words came easily.

Oh God. The thought flared across his mind, illuminating his own thoughts the way a bolt of lightning lit up the night sky. _He_ was the one to whom words came easily. He was a writer; he was used to expressing himself in words. But even for him, what he felt for Kate meant too much, had kept him silent for months. There was a reason he hadn't even been able to tell Kate he loved her in so many words until he thought she was dying. A reason aside from the one named Dr. Josh Davidson, that is. Yes, words came easily to him, but where Kate was concerned, his words—like his courage—failed him all too easily.

But she wasn't like him. He _knew_ that about her; he knew her. He'd somehow forgotten it in his automatic, impulsive reaction to being blindsided by the revelation that she remembered his confession of love but now, his thoughts no longer clouded by anger and hurt, he remembered. And realized his mistake.

She didn't let people in; she was guarded, cautious, about her emotions, about anything that went too deeply. Words didn't come easily for her, not when it came to what she felt; with her, her actions always spoke louder, much louder, than her words ever would. He'd wished that she had told him, had asked him to wait for her to be ready—and realized, belatedly, how huge a step, to the point of being out of character, that would have been for Beckett. He knew this about her; he'd even told her this—well, flung the accusation at her, more accurately—in that fight they'd had before Montgomery's death, when he'd accused her of hiding in relationships with men she didn't love.

And he suddenly realized that this was what she'd meant, what she'd really been saying, in the hallway of the hospital after they'd talked to Kyle Jennings. When he'd asked if Kyle—and by implication, she—would ever be ready to remember and accept the trauma they'd suffered, she'd said "Hopefully, someday, if he feels safe." _If she felt safe. _Safe enough to let someone in, to trust someone else with her life, her emotions, her heart. Safe, in a way he knew she hadn't felt since her mother had died, the day her secure world up until that point had been brutally ripped apart. Safe enough to be in the real relationship she wanted, not the sort of relationship she'd had with Dr. Motorcycle Boy, one where she'd let Josh in so far but no further, always keeping most of herself hidden away, always keeping one foot out the door.

Castle didn't doubt that if she'd wanted to, she could have let him in to that extent, slept with him at any point in the last year—hell, any point in the last four years. And he wasn't stupid enough to believe that he could have resisted Kate Beckett if she decided to seduce him into a physical relationship but little else. He could imagine it, picture it in his head all too easily, sleeping with Kate only to realize, slowly, that she was keeping it as a mostly-physical relationship, treating him much as he knew she must have treated Motorcycle Boy. He inwardly flinched—_oh God_—that would have _killed_ him, shredded his heart well and truly and probably forever. (For the first time, he felt a stab of empathy for Josh.) Oh, he would have pushed, tried to get her to let him in further, but he knew better than anyone probably just how sturdy her wall was, how deeply her reluctance to really trust someone with her heart went. And he knew that if he'd pushed when she wasn't ready, their relationship would have ended and ended badly, catastrophically badly.

But she hadn't done that.

She had waited, was waiting still—putting in the time, as she'd put it—had kept him waiting, for the wall to come down—and she'd known he loved her, _because_ she'd known he loved her, even. Oh God. Oh damn. His heart suddenly hurt—he'd been such an _idiot_—even as he felt a swell of poignant emotion bubbling up in his chest—happiness and, yes, hope. Hope that was a living, vibrant, vital thing inside him now.

She was guarded, she was cautious, she was slow to trust and quick to doubt, a skeptic in every sense, not just about things like the supernatural. But she was waiting, waiting and working towards being ready, waiting for the wall to come down. And she wanted him to be there when it did.

Maybe it was vague, maybe it was an oblique sort of confession. But this was Beckett, who didn't share, who didn't talk about her emotions. And from her, it was the equivalent of sky-writing a declaration that she wanted more, that she wanted a real relationship with him.

And he wanted that. It was what he'd always, always wanted, really. Kate Beckett to feel safe, secure—Kate Beckett to be happy, confident, totally committed to life and to love with all the depth and strength of her heart. For her damaged, wounded heart that had been broken and suffered so much hurt, so much betrayal, to be healed, fully. That was what he wanted and to see that, to be with a happy, secure Kate Beckett, he would wait as long as she wanted, as long as he needed to.

And yes, the wait would be—was—hard but to be with Kate, really with her, would be worth it. He'd always known that, hadn't he? That she was never going to be an easy, uncomplicated person—but, as he'd said to Kate just days ago, uncomplicated meant boring. He'd had the casual flings with "fun and uncomplicated" women and he knew that wasn't enough for him—maybe had never really been enough for him but certainly weren't enough for him now. Kate wasn't like that, could never be like that. Kate was hard, a challenge, a mystery he was never going to solve—and he loved her for it. And everything that was truly worth having was also worth fighting for.

He blinked, belatedly remembering that she'd asked him why he'd come in and was now giving him an odd look for his delay in answering. Quickly, he managed a shrug and a smile. "I just thought I'd drop in, bring you your coffee, on my way home from One PP." Which was lame, since the precinct wasn't on the direct route back to the loft from One PP, but oh well.

She smiled but didn't comment on that. "Well, thanks for my coffee. Are you going to stick around, watch me doing paperwork?"

"As exciting as that sounds, Beckett, I should get going. I wanted to pick up some things. Planning to make a special dinner tonight since Alexis has her last final today."

"Congratulate Alexis for me."

"I will."

"Have a good dinner."

He put on an expression of mock affront. "My special dinners are better than just good."

She grinned. "I'll take your word for it, Castle, and keep an eye out for reports of a fire at your address."

"Oh, very funny, Detective," he retorted. "I assure you that the spread my mother prepared after we were held hostage at the bank will be put to shame in comparison."

A flicker of… _something_… crossed her face at the reminder of that day but she answered lightly, "I'll have to make a point of calling your mother tomorrow to find out if she agrees with you on that."

His heart flipped—again—at her casual reference to talking to his mother. Whatever reservations that his mother might have about whether Beckett would hurt him, he knew his mother was fond of Kate and he knew that Kate returned his mother's affection. And he loved that too, loved the way she fit into his family, into his home, and made it so easy to dream of her sharing his home and his life.

"I'll tell her not to accept your calls tomorrow."

"Since when do you think your mother will do what you tell her to?" she shot back laughingly.

He made a face at her. "Okay, now you're bringing me down so I'm leaving."

"See you tomorrow, Castle."

"Have a good day, Detective. Try not to miss me too much." And just before he turned away, he saw the smile tugging on the corners of her lips before she ducked her head to hide it and he smiled to himself, his heart lighter, as it always got after any of their teasing exchanges. He loved the way she gave as good as she got—and he really, really loved the way she indulged him in being, well, himself and how her irrepressible smiles softened her verbal insults.

He would wait for the wall to come down, wait for her. Because she wanted him to wait. Because she wanted a real relationship with him.

And for now, that hope, that belief, that knowledge, was enough.

_~To be continued…~_

_Author's Note 2: I wanted Kate to say "always" to Castle again before, well, "Always" actually happened, especially because the moment at the end of "The Dead Pool" had me squeeing and swooning at the sheer adorableness of it, of them. I hope my explanation, of sorts, of Kate's behavior in Season 4, from Castle's perspective makes some sense. He seemed to forget it towards the end of "47 Seconds" and afterwards but he was hurt and angry and people tend to do stupid things when they're hurt and angry and Castle's always been impulsive. This is as close as I can come to explaining how Castle's attitude seems to shift so quickly in "Undead Again." _

_As always, thoughts and reviews are much appreciated. Thanks for reading! _


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: See Chapter 1. _

_Author's Note: Thank you so much to everyone who's read, reviewed, and/or favorited this story. Now, finally, the last chapter of this story. I hope it's worth the wait. _

**Getting Closer to Always **

_Chapter 3_

Castle knew he was beaming and possibly grinning like an idiot but he couldn't help it as he put Beckett's coffee down on her desk. "Good morning, Detective."

She raised her eyebrows even as she returned his smile. "Wow, Castle, did someone make you the King of the Universe or, wait, no, did you reach a new high score on one of your video games?"

He laughed. "Neither of those things. I'll have you know that you are looking at the father of a valedictorian, Beckett."

"Alexis is the valedictorian? That's great! Tell her congratulations for me."

He inclined his head slightly. "Thank you. I'll tell her."

"And look at you, just bursting with pride, aren't you, Castle?"

"Can I help it if my daughter is the most brilliant and wonderful high school student on the planet?"

She laughed. "On the planet, Castle, really? You might be a little biased about that."

"I admit that I might be a little biased but it doesn't make my conclusion any less true. Alexis is as close to perfect as it's possible to be."

Her smile softened a little even as she shook her head at him. "I think you're a little drunk with fatherly pride right now, Castle."

"Oh, I know I am," he acknowledged frankly. He'd been pretty much giddy since the moment Alexis had told him and his mother the news yesterday at dinner. It was entirely possible he'd been beaming non-stop since that moment. And he'd been hard put not to call Beckett immediately, his mind leaping to her, to wanting to share the news with her first. She was always the first person he wanted to call, the first person he wanted to share news with, both good and bad. And with just about everything, he constantly found himself wondering what she would think, how she would react. She lived inside his mind so hers was, so often, the internal voice he heard, had become the voice of his own better judgment.

"You realize her being named a valedictorian means she's really graduating high school, getting ready to leave home, and all that."

His grin collapsed and he grimaced at her. "Thank you, Detective Downer. Did you have to remind me about that?"

Rather to his surprise since his tone had been mostly teasing, she looked honestly apologetic. "I'm sorry, Castle. I didn't mean to ruin the moment."

He waved a dismissive hand, his smile returning, if a little more subdued than it had been before. "Never mind, Beckett. My powers of denial are more than a match for your reality."

Her smile returned as well, lit up her eyes. "So you admit to being in denial?"

"I'm going through the stages of grieving and right now, yes, I'm firmly ensconced in Denial-land."

"Well, it's not a bad place to be and you still have—what, a week until the actual ceremony?"

"Almost. It's five days from now," he corrected her. He could have told her the exact number of hours left too but he decided to leave it at that.

"Five days. Wow. I can't believe it's coming up that fast."

"Tell me about it."

"So, is she excited?"

"I think freaked out might be the better term."

"Freaked out? Why?"

"Oh, because as valedictorian, she gets to give the graduation speech at the ceremony," he answered, grinning proudly again. (Nope, the giddiness wasn't going away any time soon.)

"Wow, that's quite an honor for her."

"It is. But she seems more stressed at the thought of it than she was over any of her finals," he said with a faint frown. He hated seeing Alexis worried.

"Of course she is."

"Why?" he asked in honest confusion. He didn't know how Alexis could be so relatively calm over her finals or in giving presentations for class—Alexis, who had always cared about her grades—only to fall apart at the idea of giving a speech that wouldn't be graded at all.

"Because all she needed to do for her finals was study and Alexis has been studying her entire life. She knows how to study. She doesn't know how to write and give a speech at one of life's big threshold moments. That's not something she's been trained to do."

The explanation gave him pause and he studied her for a moment. "That makes sense," he admitted. He sometimes forgot one of the reasons he liked talking with Beckett so much, about Alexis and about other things too; Beckett had a way of giving him a fresh perspective on things. For all that their minds could work in sync so well when it came to solving cases—and he loved that—in other things, she often gave him a new way of looking at things. And when it came to Alexis, he had to admit that in some ways, Beckett probably had a better understanding of Alexis than he did simply because they were more similar in their characters. Beckett, like Alexis, took things seriously; Beckett, like Alexis, followed rules; Beckett, like Alexis, was a person who took responsibility for things. He knew Alexis and the way she thought and reacted to things; he trusted that he knew Alexis better than anyone else in the world. But sometimes, understanding how and why Alexis reacted to things the way she did didn't come naturally to him. And that was where talking to Beckett helped. She made him a better father for Alexis—and really, he would probably love her for that alone. Combined with everything else Beckett was, it was no wonder he was so head over heels in love with Kate.

Beckett smiled. "But she'll figure it out."

"I know she will. Alexis has pretty much always succeeded at whatever she set her mind to."

"What's her plan for preparing what she's going to say?"

"At the moment, it involves searching the Internet for every graduation speech ever given since the beginning of time. I'm not sure but she's probably reading the graduation speeches the ancient Romans gave and the speeches given to the students of Socrates and Aristotle when they graduated."

She smiled. "Well, if she starts her speech by addressing 'Friends, Romans, countrymen,' you can probably blame all her research for that."

He laughed. "Right. At any rate, that's her plan for the next 5 days."

"Wish her luck for me and tell her I'm sure she'll do just fine."

"I'll do that."

"And what about you, Castle? Do you have a plan for how you're going to deal with everything?"

He lifted his eyebrows at her. "Being in Denial sort of implies that I don't have a plan, doesn't it? Because I really don't. I'm pretending that this summer will go on forever and she'll keep on living at home, just with no school or classes to go to."

Her expression softened and then she leaned forward a little to rest her hand on his arm that was on her desk. "Well, if you need help getting through the other stages of grieving, let me know."

His brain blanked, his thoughts stuttering, as his eyes focused on her hand resting on his arm, every nerve in his body suddenly seeming to be centered around that spot, the warmth of her hand. Oh God. What was this? They touched—or they used to, fairly often, but they hadn't in weeks, not since the Boylan Plaza bombing case. Not since he'd found out the truth and their relationship had gone to hell, suddenly becoming this aching, painful thing, rather than the source of happiness it had been before. And now, she was touching him, fairly platonically, admittedly, but still. Beckett was touching him and even this platonic touch had the ability to scramble his brain completely. (It occurred to him, not for the first time, that actually making love to Kate might be the death of him, if he reacted this strongly to just the touch of her hand. It was ridiculous. He had, frankly, been with enough women that he ought to be immune to reacting this strongly to a platonic touch but no, not where Kate was concerned. She was… _Kate_ and she was different.) "If I need help?" he found himself parroting rather lamely.

"You know, if you need a hand to hold or a shoulder to cry on," she said, her tone light, as she gave his arm a pat and then removed her hand.

And he could swear that in spite of his shirt and his jacket, the spot on his arm where her hand had rested felt suddenly colder from the loss of her touch.

"You—really?" he asked, rather stupidly.

"Of course, Castle. I know that graduations are emotional for parents, harder than they are for the graduates. You should have seen how misty-eyed my dad was for my high school graduation."

He smiled, distracted now as he usually was at any mention of her parents. Beckett treasured her memories of her parents, her mom especially, the way a miser hoarded gold, keeping them to herself, allowing only brief glimpses into the happiness of her past before her mother's murder had torn her apart. It was why he loved every time Beckett mentioned her parents, shared some memory of her parents; for her, talking about her parents was a sign of trust, one she gave to few people in her life. "Was he really?"

Her expression softened, becoming reminiscent. "Yeah, my dad was an emotional wreck for my high school graduation. My mom teased him for being such a softy about it but then, when the fall came and my parents took me to Stanford to move in, the tables were turned because then, my mom was the emotional one."

"Your mom cried?"

"Yeah," she said softly. "I almost never saw my mom cry when I was growing up; she wouldn't allow herself to cry in front of me, I think. But that day, when we were done moving me into my dorm room and it was time for my parents to leave, my mom broke down and she cried and hugged me for a long time like she was never going to let me go again. My dad had to remind her that they had a flight to catch and she was still crying when they drove away."

"Remind me to bring multiple boxes of tissues with me when I help Alexis move in to Columbia."

She managed a smile in response to this only half-joking request. "She's only moving a couple miles uptown."

He held up a hand in exaggerated dismay. "Not thinking about it yet, remember, Beckett? Still in denial, thank you."

She laughed—and damn, he did love making her laugh. "Sorry, Castle, I forgot. Alexis isn't going anywhere; she'll stay at home with you as your little girl forever."

He nodded, keeping his face straight even as his heart warmed at her indulging him in his denial. "Thank you."

Her expression softened. "It'll be okay, you know, Castle. Alexis loves you and she'll still need you. Just like I still need my dad."

His chest warmed at this evidence of her wanting him to feel better over his little girl growing up and getting ready to leave home, the added little evidence of trust from her admission of still needing her father. Beckett didn't admit to needing people, to vulnerability of any kind, easily; he understood that, understood why, after all she'd been through, all the people who had let her down. It had been those flashes of vulnerability that had caught him, held him, fascinated him from the beginning and after all these years, it was still part of the mystery that was Kate Beckett that he couldn't get enough of. "I know," he agreed with a little sigh. "But it still won't be the same." He lifted his shoulders a little. "Alexis is growing up. I just don't want to accept it."

"Things change, Castle. Nothing stays the same forever. Kids grow up. People learn from their mistakes." She paused and then added, more quietly, "Walls come down."

His eyes flew up to meet hers, startled, suddenly breathless. And almost dizzy with the sudden rush of hope.

She didn't look away, held his gaze as she finished, "Things change and change is good."

_People learn from their mistakes. Walls come down. Change is good… _

"You're right," he managed to say through his suddenly dry throat. "Change is good."

Her lips curved slightly and then—oh God—her gaze lowered to his lips for a second before returning to his eyes.

Desire slammed into him so hard and so fast he felt as if he'd been hit by a metaphorical freight train. _He wanted to kiss her._ At that moment, he felt as if he wanted to kiss her more than he wanted his next breath. The force of the wanting stunned him. God knew he was used to wanting to kiss her—he felt as if he'd spent the better part of the last four years wanting to kiss Kate Beckett. But not like this. This was more. Because now, looking at her, he _knew_—knew both from primal instinct and from the knowledge that came from more casual flings than he cared to count—that she wanted to kiss him too.

He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe. He didn't dare to blink for that matter, half-afraid that if he did blink, he'd find that it had all been his imagination, that Beckett wasn't looking at him like… well, like she was and… and…

"Hey, Beckett."

The sound of her name made them both start, his arm slipping off the side of her desk so his entire torso jerked forward ungracefully.

_Damn it. Smooth move, Rick_, he thought sarcastically. And damn Ryan for interrupting, he thought, rather irrationally.

She looked up. "Yeah, Ryan?"

"You coming to this thing?"

"Oh, right, yeah, just a sec."

Beckett looked at him, still a little flushed, regret and apology written all over her face. "Castle, I'm sorry. We've got this precinct-wide meeting about something or other right now. I—I've got to go."

"No, no, it's okay," he said quickly. "I understand." He understood about her work. Understood what she'd been telling him. Understood… everything…

She gave him a soft smile. "Okay. Um, we're going to be on call if a body drops from tomorrow so… I guess I'll see you later?"

"Right, later," he repeated a little dumbly, managing a small, rather tight, smile.

_Damn damn damn damn damn. Stupid Ryan. Stupid precinct meeting. Stupid universe. _

"I'll call you, Castle," Beckett said after another long moment where they both seemed frozen in place.

"Until then, Beckett," he managed to say and then forced himself to lift a hand in a vague wave towards Espo and, yes, Ryan too. "Later, guys."

"Later, Castle," they chorused in messy unison.

He watched as Beckett joined them, with a last glance back at him.

And then, when the bullpen was emptied except for a few uniforms manning the phones, he finally turned to walk towards the elevator. He allowed himself a brief sigh but then smiled to himself.

_Walls come down. Change is good… _

And she'd wanted to kiss him too. That was a definite change.

They'd been interrupted and, as frustrated as he was, he also felt… happy. More hopeful and optimistic than he'd ever felt before.

They weren't there yet. She had yet to tell him in so many words that she loved him. They had yet to kiss.

But oh, they were close now. He felt it. Knew it. They were close to the start of everything, to the start of their Always.

The wall—that damn, blasted wall—had come down. Or at the very least was close enough that only a few bricks remained.

Yes, they were close. Finally, after all these years, after all these months of waiting, after these last few weeks and days of hurting and doubting and learning to hope again, they were close. And nothing, he decided, would get in the way of their Always now.

_~The End~_

_Until Orlando Costas gets murdered and everything goes to hell…_

_Author's Note 2: I thought it was necessary to end this with some sort of definite forward movement between Castle and Beckett to try to explain, at least a little, of where Castle would get the courage to throw everything on the line the way he does in that epically awesome (and heartbreaking) argument in "Always." _

_The angels keep their ancient places- _

_Turn but a stone and start a wing! _

_'Tis ye, 'tis your estrangèd faces, _

_That miss the many-splendored thing. _

- Francis Thompson, "The Kingdom of God"


End file.
